


Coldness/Heat

by agirlsname



Series: New Year's Kiss [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bedsharing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, New Year's Eve, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sharing Body Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 05:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13264800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: The inn is booked up on New Year's Eve. The train home is cancelled because of the snow. The only option is to sleep in the non-heated guest room of a client, and John and Sherlock are freezing.You know where this is going.





	Coldness/Heat

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR, my darlings! Thank you for the wonderful fic year of 2017, and let's hope 2018 will bring just as much inspiration. I appreciate every single subscriber I have earned during this first year, and I assure you I fully intend to keep pouring fics out of me like a lunatic.
> 
> As a thank-you for your constant support and loveliness, let me treat you with a little PWP while we're waiting for my next bigger work. (Speaking of which, keep your eyes out on January 29th - I might have something to celebrate the date...) An extra thanks to Links, who mercifully listened to my cry for help when I needed to come up with the tiny bit of plot.
> 
> Thank you as ever to Akhenaten's Mummy, who dropped everything and did a beta in record time when I surprised her with this thing. You are one faithful companion!

It is the strangest New Year's Eve of John Watson's life. At four in the afternoon, Sherlock receives an email from a couple begging him for help, and John barely has the chance to get a gist of the case before he is dragged to the central station by one impatient consulting detective. At five, they arrive in the small village north of London, greeted by the friendly Mrs and Mr Hanson. At six, Sherlock is ordering him around during investigations while John is trying to wrap his head around what it really is they are investigating, and at seven, the blizzard hits.

At eight, John tries to take notes with hands that feel as though they're packed with ice, at nine he starts working on convincing Sherlock to stop for some food, and at ten he succeeds. They eat at the local inn, grabbing the last two seats in the crowded dining room. All the guests are festive and boisterous with the flowing alcohol, but at least it's warm in there. Sherlock pokes at his food, looking around him with an expression of disdainful suspicion, and John fights the urge to grab his fork and feed him.

John has almost finished his own meal when the door opens and a group of loud people in golden party hats stumble in with snowflakes whirling around them. The wrinkle between Sherlock's eyes appears when he looks at them and John sighs.

“Give them a break. It's New Year's.”

Sherlock stares at him with open mouth. Apparently that is a clue to the case, and Sherlock is out the door before John has even swallowed his bite.

“Why didn't you tell me before?” Sherlock yells at him through the wind.

“I thought you knew, git!” John bites back and raises his shoulders to make the collar of his jacket cover as much skin as possible.

At eleven, the storm has waned, but John is colder than ever, digging through the snow to find some clue Sherlock is convinced should be here _somewhere_. John is freezing and annoyed, and Sherlock is even less communicative than he usually is, but refuses to admit it's because he can't feel his hands and feet either. Unnecessary insults fly out of his blue lips and John still doesn't quite understand this case, even less the clues he's sacrificing his cold hands for.

When the clock strikes midnight, they are running through ankle-deep snow after a suspect. John wouldn't have noticed the new year's beginning if not for the cascade of fireworks adding drama to their chase. Not that it was needed; Sherlock alone is a dramatic enough sight, with his whirling coat and his whipping curls and his striking profile, the moonlight paling his skin and casting sharp shadows across his face.

At one in the morning, they are standing in the Hanson kitchen, and John has had enough.

“Are you joking?” he says to Mrs Hanson, a humourless smile settling on his frozen features.

“I am sorry, Dr Watson-” Mrs Hanson starts.

“John, what did you expect?” Sherlock cuts her off. “You can hardly claim not to have noticed the snow; you have been complaining about it all night.”

“I guess I expected the ruddy railway companies not to be surprised that it snows _every year_!” he yells, and when the Hansons stare at him he immediately adds: “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just. Been a long night.”

“We are more grateful than we can tell you”, Mr Hanson says. “Don't worry; you can stay the night at the inn, and I'm sure the trains will be running again by noon tomorrow.”

That would have been an acceptable alternative, had the inn not been booked up on the night of the new year. Which is how John finds himself standing in the doorway of an ice-cold bedroom on Hansons' second floor.

“Anna was home for Christmas”, Mrs Hanson says as she strides over to the radiator, “so it's just been cleaned. But we don't have the heat on up here when the room is empty. I'm sorry we couldn't arrange something more comfortable for you boys, after all you've done for us. It shouldn't take long until it's warmed up.”

“Don't worry, it's fine”, John says tiredly. He thinks he manages a smile at her, but it's hard to tell with his face still stiff with cold.

The room is cosy, just like the rest of the cottage. The wallpaper is a restful light blue, with a big painting of the local church against a sunset hanging on the far wall. The sheets of the single bed are white and crisp, probably starched. Mr Hanson drops off a wool blanket in beautiful patterns, which John quietly spreads over the duvet. When he looks up, he catches Sherlock's eye before Sherlock quickly looks back to the dark window.

“It's _freezing_ in here”, John says in a low voice.

“I do not control the weather, nor the railways, John”, Sherlock tells his own reflection in the glass.

“A fine start to the year”, John grumbles, sitting on the edge of the bed. His shoes feel like refrigerators and he removes them with a heavy sigh, putting his right leg up on the other knee and furiously rubbing the sole of his foot.

“You take the bed”, Sherlock says with his back still turned. “I do not need to sleep.”

John glances over the bed. The scandalous temperature in here has stopped him noticing how narrow it is. He lifts his eyes to Sherlock, and while the theatrical coat still obscures most of him, John can see his shoulders hunched up and his ears red from the cold. At the sight of Sherlock in distress, trying not to let on and without any plan to take care of himself, John's grumpiness dissipates.

“No”, he says, getting up and tugging on Sherlock's sleeve to make him turn. “You'll come to bed with me.”

When Sherlock turns, his scowl is already properly in place. “What?”

Sherlock's lips are still blue, and from a closer distance John realises Sherlock is shivering. “We need to warm up”, he says with the finality of a doctor's order.

“How?” Sherlock is still scowling. “This radiator is decades old, it will take all night to warm up.”

“Which is why you need to get into the bed with me, genius.” Sherlock keeps looking sceptical, but John reaches out and unfastens a button of his coat: “Off”, he orders before getting to work on his own clothes.

Once Sherlock has gotten started, he undresses in record time. John reluctantly removes his jeans, hissing as the cold air hits his thighs, and catches sight of Sherlock's gooseflesh skin when he throws his posh shirt over a chair with uncharacteristic carelessness. He is wearing only a pair of tight, black boxers, and he quickly dives in under the covers while John unbuttons his shirt. John watches him fight to keep his teeth from clattering, and he almost smiles at the endearing sight. He leaves his undershirt on when he joins Sherlock on the bed.

John swears under his breath when the cold sheets come in contact with his skin. Sherlock wordlessly pokes at his shoulder, encouraging him to turn onto his side. He winces when the sheets slide around him, but then Sherlock's warm torso touches his back. An ice-cold hand on his side makes him hiss.

“Sherlock, for fuck's sake!” He bats at Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock reluctantly removes it.

“What?” he grumbles. “I'm cold.”

“I can bloody well feel that”, John says, a hint of laughter hiding somewhere in his voice. “It'll warm up eventually. Come on.” He reaches behind him to grab Sherlock's wrist and pulls his arm back around him, letting Sherlock's hand rest on the sheet a safe distance away from his chest. He rests his own hand on top of it.

“Just don't touch my stomach with that, or I _will_ kick you.”

Sherlock grunts and lets his other arm snake into the space between the pillow and John's neck, and John moves his legs until they are pressed against the length of Sherlock's. He sighs when the worst tension of his muscles dissipates with the carefully building warmth of their bodies.

John arranges the duvet close around him, despite the chill emanating from the stiff fabric resting against him. When the rustling sheets quiet, he can hear the murmuring voices of Mrs and Mr Hanson from downstairs. Their hosts' bedroom must be directly below them. There is something soothing in listening to the couple getting ready to sleep. John wonders how many new years they have entered together, and if they still look forward to it after all that time. From the way they held each other during the stress of the case, he thinks they might.

John's nose and ears are still cold and the air is chilly in his lungs. But at least the sheets are no longer acutely uncomfortable, and John's breathing starts to even out. Against his back, he feels Sherlock's breathing becoming deeper. They fit together perfectly like this, John thinks. There isn't a single gap between their bodies that can let the cold in.

“Happy New Year”, John says gently into the dark.

“Mmm”, Sherlock mumbles, the vibrations of it rumbling through John's spine. He realises Sherlock is almost asleep, and the thought puts a soft smile on his lips. When the voices from downstairs have quieted, John sleeps too.

 

The pale morning light is comforting against John's eyelids. Not bright enough to be invasive in his dreamless sleep, only as a subtle awakening, a welcoming into the new day. John soars in the state of being aware of his mind, but with his body still sleeping. His breaths are calm and easy, his limbs heavy.

He is lying in a cocoon of warmth. The duvet is still tucked around him, and though he has slept in his undershirt, he isn't uncomfortable in it; it only adds to the feeling of being enveloped in friendly heat. Behind him, Sherlock is wrapped around him, arm still slung haphazardly over his ribcage, face mashed into his neck, their thighs pressed together. The bare arm stretched out under John's neck emits the familiar smell of Sherlock.

John inhales slowly, the scent filling him to the brim, and when he exhales his voice almost follows the stream of air in a barely-there sound of contentment. He stirs, unconsciously burrowing further into Sherlock's snug warmth. Sherlock answers by inching closer to John, making a satisfied sleepy sound.

They are surrounded by the kind of silence that only exists in a snowy landscape. John's sleepy brain has a vague idea of yesterday night – the case, the Hansons, the cold. The air in the room is warm now, he realises, so the radiator finally did its job. He briefly wonders what time it is, but immediately stops caring; it is New Year's Day and nobody is awake. He doesn't have to be, either.

Pushing back into Sherlock's comforting body, a glowing liquid seems to flow through John. It makes him sigh, it makes him wriggle slightly in the pleasant heat. He is too sleepy to react when the bulge tucked against his bottom comes to mind, he is not quite awake when he becomes aware of the swirling tingle in his own groin.

A delicious shudder passes through him and his muscles tense involuntarily, turning into a slow stretch. He lets the languid tension of his body evaporate some of his sleepiness, and in the stretch his back presses into Sherlock even more. Sherlock hums a sigh, his hips meeting John's movement.

John stills, his breathing slightly heavier, vaguely aware of his heart pulsing in his chest. This is not exactly consistent with any plans they've had. The plan was not to die of hypothermia, not enjoying a cuddle with only the thin fabric of one undershirt and two pairs of pants between them.

But it doesn't feel like reality, this. It feels like he has been dropped into a dream where time moves leisurably and air is liquid, and Sherlock is a delicious pressure that John wishes could cover every inch of his skin at once. Sherlock keeps stirring slightly – John can feel his feet moving slowly against the mattress, and the stirring of his hips is almost imperceptible but very, very there – but he's unsure if Sherlock is awake yet.

That is a bit not good, actually. John blinks his eyes open. He should probably move away before Sherlock wakes up. The cottage is quiet, the Hansons still asleep. Maybe he can slip into the kitchen, make some tea and check if the trains are moving.

But just when he has decided to get up, Sherlock heaves another slow sigh through his nose and moves his upper arm to place it up along John's torso. The heel of his warm hand presses firmly into John's breastbone, trapping John against Sherlock's chest. With a grunt, Sherlock slides his nose against John's neck, pressing it into his trapezius, breathing in deeply. John's bottom decides to answer this by discreetly pushing back again, and God, that's a luscious feeling. Sherlock's cock is undeniably hard now, and John's laboured exhale must be perfectly audible for the world's most perceptive man.

In the still morning air, John can hear Sherlock's mouth opening, and he feels a gush of humid breath against his sensitive neck skin. Sherlock's breathing is a little bit more shallow now and he must be awake. And they don't do this, they don't.

Although technically, they're not doing anything, are they. They fell asleep together to conserve body heat, and as a consequence they have woken up together. Nothing more to it. And if they want to take their time waking up, well, that's hardly _wrong_.

They are lying _a_ _lmost_ still. Their breaths stir their bodies, growing more and more heavy, making their torsos rub against each other. Their legs and hips make the tiniest movements of their own volition, so tiny that they can almost pretend they're doing nothing at all. The blood pumps through John's body, making him hot, making his cock pulse. He inches further back, and further back, never reaching the point where he feels close enough to the man behind him. He is received by Sherlock's solid body, welcoming John, still pressing the tip of his nose into John's skin with a small nuzzle.

The fondness of this act makes John disregard any plans for stopping while he still can. The shift from the haughty detective last night to this affectionate embrace, is as profound as the room's transformation from coldness to heat. It makes John _ache_.

His legs become restless, squirming against Sherlock's now damp skin. Sherlock slowly wriggles his hips, his cock barely shifting against John's flesh. When Sherlock splays his hand against John's chest, his thumb inches from John's right nipple, John has to fight back a moan. They're not _really_ touching, they're not kissing. This isn't sex, it's just… insanely erotic.

John ducks his head, pressing his lips together to prevent accidental sounds. Sherlock's arm underneath him is smooth against his cheek. Sherlock follows his movement, stopping with his lips just above John's neck, his breaths now bordering on panting. He splays his fingers further, and John's mouth falls open when his thumb finally brushes the nipple through the thin fabric of John's shirt. The heat becomes suddenly unbearable and John lifts an arm, throwing the duvet down to let it fold over their legs. He sighs in relief at the cool air, lifting his chin back up, and Sherlock's lips come in contact with his neck.

John freezes in place, not willing to risk Sherlock's hand or mouth falling off him. Sherlock breathes hotly into his skin and his thumb presses against John's nipple. When it starts making barely noticeable circles, John gasps against his will, feeling himself press his bottom hard against Sherlock's groin. Sherlock's cock twitches and he makes a bitten-off sound in his throat, closes his lips on John's skin and sucks.

John can't help moving now. Sherlock slides his erection lazily against his bum and John meets his thrusts – he wants it against him, can't quite get enough of that feeling however hard he presses back. He can feel himself leaking into his pants, desperate for friction himself. He can't risk changing anything about this, though, in case it breaks the spell that allows him to have Sherlock my-body-is-transport Holmes' cock rubbing against him.

Sherlock is covering his neck with open-mouthed kisses. John pants at the feel of Sherlock's tongue across his sensitive skin, imagining how that perfect plush mouth looks pressed against him. Their legs tangle together under the thick weight of the duvet, giving Sherlock better access to his bottom, but compromising John's range of movement. He needs an outlet for the rushing urgency holding him, and he ducks his head again to taste the skin of Sherlock's arm.

It shouldn't be particularly arousing, but Sherlock gasps, curling his fingertips into John's breast for a moment before trailing his hand down in one steady movement. John's teeth sink into Sherlock's skin, he laps at it, desperately sucks at it, when Sherlock's hand settles on the damp spot of his pants.

When John tries to move, it only makes the motion clumsy. He is trapped between Sherlock's hand, caressing and rubbing over the thin fabric of his pants, and the increasingly explicit thrusts of his hips behind him. It wouldn't be difficult to move out of Sherlock's grip, but the hint of control Sherlock has over him feels unbearably good. John bites his lip and forces himself to stay still.

Sherlock's breathing is starting to stutter against his damp neck. John reaches back and grabs a handful of Sherlock's curls in his fist, holding on for dear life as Sherlock's maddening hand moves in circles over John's cock. When Sherlock lifts his head to put his nose and mouth in the hollow under John's ear, licking and _gasping_ , a high-pitched whimper escapes John.

“Shhhh”, Sherlock whispers unsteadily into his ear.

John wants to whisper his name in return, but doesn't trust himself not to scream it. His blood glows where it rushes through his heart, through his cock, through every damn capillary of his peripheral vascular system. He is acutely aware of where they are, of the need to stay quiet in the thin-walled cottage of a client, and he writhes while he fights to stay still.

Sherlock is frantically moving his pelvis, latching his mouth onto John's skin and sucking as if he is trying to drain him. Sherlock helpless with pleasure is the hottest thing John has ever experienced, he shakes and clenches his hand in Sherlock's sweat-damp curls. He sucks his lips in between his teeth to stay quiet when he comes, only vaguely aware of how Sherlock's deep voice gives a long, quiet groan into John's skin when he comes too.

The quiet settles slowly. Their breaths calm in a matching rhythm. John lets himself melt into Sherlock's heavy body, pleased at the smell of sex in the air, at the flow of it through him. Sherlock is as still and peaceful as John has ever seen him.

With his head blessedly quiet, John simply floats in the taste of January First. The still glow of oceans of time stretched out before him, the prospect of wading in it with the steadiness of Sherlock in his hand.

Eventually Sherlock stirs. The peace breaks at once and with a pang of panic, John realises that he is about to get up and walk away. With the certainty of a Captain assessing a crisis, he knows that Sherlock will close himself in the bathroom, and when he comes out he will be closed off himself, and they will never speak of this. They will perhaps do it again by accident, and then it will be even harder to speak about, and they will never have a chance of… something. And in that split second, John knows that this would be unacceptable – just as he knew it would be unacceptable for Sherlock to die at the hands of a cabbie right when he had finally, _finally_ appeared in John's life.

Just as Sherlock's arm starts to slide off, John puts a hand on it to stop him. Sherlock stills again, his body taut, his breathing quiet. _You're a soldier, Watson_ , John tells himself and turns his head on the pillow.

Sherlock looks absolutely delicious with his hair tousled and his cheeks feverishly rosy. His expression is wary, though, when he meets John's eyes. John catches sight of the burned patch of his eyebrow from that experiment last week, and of the tension of his lips that always appears when he tries to hold himself impassive. It is indeed his lunatic flatmate lying behind him, soaking John's pants with semen.

They stare at each other for a few moments, and he sees Sherlock's mouth twist at the same time as John breaks out in giggles. He has to look away not to explode with it, and Sherlock's rumbling chuckles shake John's body. John pinches his eyes closed when he tries to control himself.

“What the hell happened, Sherlock”, John says when he has stifled the worst of his laughter.

“I don't know”, Sherlock says, his smile evident in his fleeting tone.

“It was so good.” John incredulously shakes his head, feeling hysterical.

Sherlock hides his face in John's hair. “I agree with that assessment.”

John starts giggling again. Sherlock is silent this time, but his chest quakes with huffing laughter.

When the last of the laughter has escaped out of John in ridiculous squeaking noises, he turns his head back, waiting until Sherlock reclines a bit to meet his gaze. Sherlock's eyes flicker to search between his, looking simply curious this time.

John's heart is banging wildly, a dead give-away for Sherlock where he's still pressed against John's back. “I never got a New Year's kiss”, he says, sounding calmer than he is.

It feels a bit like jumping out of an aeroplane. He is light-headed, dizzy, his stomach swooping. But he doesn't have to be afraid, because Sherlock's eyes start to gleam and the flush on his face darkens. The look on his face is one of such boyish anticipation that John's insides clench with the urge to protect this man at any cost.

John tips his chin up slightly, and Sherlock's eyes flutter closed at once. John moves forward, stopping an inch from Sherlock for a private, giddy smile, before he meets his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Next New Year's Eve, Sherlock kisses John at midnight in every time zone, to make up for that lost New Year's kiss.
> 
> (That's a [headcanon](https://twitter.com/sherlockPPU/status/947492305900097536) I borrowed from the lovely makers of the upcoming shortfilm Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Furtive Festivity – check out their Twitter @sherlockPPU and get excited for canon Johnlock!)


End file.
